Poems (Tree)/The Caravans of Spring are in the Town
THE caravans of spring are in the town,Lighting their brilliant torches in the park,Dangling their bells, engirdling each starkBlack tree with coloured rings. The houses frownAgainst the beryl sky, yet wear a crownOf hazy dream, or flash a golden sparkOf sun-fire in their windows glum and dark;The people blow like petals up and down.
But London tires at evening, each grey streetMourns as the slow procession passes by,Traffic and crowd, and Time on loitering feet.Spring droops his lute, the slender echoes sigh,And wistfully the jaded revellers meet,Their pomp in tatters and their wreaths awry.
1918